Dialogue
by northernexposure
Summary: When all that is left to say is everything.  SPOILERS FOR 9.1


Dialogue

Author's note: 'Scarlett' isn't a spelling mistake, in case you were wondering… I like to think that Harry's dog is named for Sir John Scarlett, former DG of MI6…

* * *

She sits with one hand poised against her head, the  
other turning an old ring to the light  
for hours our talk has beaten  
like rain against the screens  
a sense of August and heat-lighting  
I get up, go to make tea, come back  
we look at each other  
then she says (and this is what I live through  
over and over) — she says_: I do not know  
__if sex is an illusion_

_I do not know  
__who I was when I did those things  
__or who I said I was  
__or whether I willed to feel  
__what I had read about  
__or who in fact was there with me  
__or whether I knew, even then  
__that there was doubt  
__about these things_

Adrienne Rich – _Dialogue_

_

* * *

_

A light, silvery rain was falling out of the steel-grey London sky. It was early, earlier even than he usually rose, but Harry was already dressed for work. Scarlett's eager tail jiggled against his leg as he bent down to attach her collar before opening the door to his town house. They jogged down the steps together, and he pulled his collar more firmly around his neck against the drizzle.

The dull sun was not yet completely up, still teetering on the edge of dawn. The birds – and he was always surprised by how many there were, even in this densely built-upon part of Fulham – were tuning up for daybreak with an enthusiasm Harry did not share.

He hadn't slept well. He hadn't slept well for days, in fact. Harry supposed that should come as no surprise, given the extreme emotional circumstances that had prevailed in his life recently. Losing Ros… Losing Ruth… Everything that had come between, and after.

Harry hoped he would never learn to bear such things lightly, for surely if he did there would no longer be hope for his soul. That was something he worried about more and more, these days. Not his eternal soul, a concept in which he never had and never would believe, but the basic precepts of his own personality. He had spent so much of his life living a lie by necessity, and in his latter years had facilitated others under his command to do the same. He sometimes wondered, now, what was truly him and what was merely a facade.

He'd tried to explain that to Ruth. Harry had tried to tell her that of everything, she was his truth, and that he suspected he was hers. Actually, it was now more than a suspicion, given the elegantly eloquent way she had turned down his proposal. So many moments where she would have said yes, _always_. Those words would stay with him until his death-bed. How could one sentence combine such joy with such devastation?

Scarlett turned instinctively into the little park at the end of their street. Harry followed, feeling the chill as the avenue gave way to an open space through which the wind eagerly rustled. The square of green, neatly edged by fading rose bushes and long-established plane trees, was not as empty as usual. A lone figure sat on one of the furthest benches. Harry felt a faint pulse of irritation that his solitude had been breached, and then shook the feeling away, the annoyance turning inward. He was the early one, today. He was the intruder.

Harry let Scarlett off the lead and the little dog skittered away, chasing the first falling leaves of autumn. He dug his hands into the pockets of his heavy overcoat and slowly strolled after her, enjoying the comparative silence. This was the one time when he could not be reached. On this brief, daily morning walk, Harry carried no phone. If catastrophe hit Britain or her allies in the next 20 minutes, he would be none the wiser. It was his one daily act of defiance, his one nod to self-interest over duty. And without it, Harry sometimes thought he would go mad.

_This is me,_ he thought, looking around the quiet well of greenery, _This is really me, now. A seeker of peace. A student of solitude. _

The night that Ruth had come to find him on the rooftop, she could not have realised how close she had come to naming what was in his heart, and even he hadn't realised it himself until she had spoken the words. _A house in Sussex._ Maybe not Sussex, per say, but she had nailed him down, right there. That was the half-constructed image he had had of them, in the moments when he had allowed himself to contemplate a future with her. A quiet home in a quiet village, where the birds were not drowned out by traffic once the sun had risen, and where he and Scarlett could walk for miles and never once be intruded upon. And, of course, there would be her to come home to.

He took a breath, feeling the familiar ache in his heart as he shut that particular door. Funny how, as you got older, it was the simple things that one desired the most. How he had treasured that idea, without really acknowledging the specifics of it. Coming home to her. Or as was more likely, given their respective ages, her coming home to him. The mechanics of it were not important.

Though of course, as she had pointed out, they _were _important. He had been caught up in some romantic idea of a happy ending; she had pointed out that their coming together would not be an end, but merely the beginning of something else, something that could well be as much of a struggle as this had been.

Harry couldn't help but think that she had missed the point. He'd understood perfectly what she had said, and inevitably, he loved her all the more for it. But she hadn't understood him, at all, and now he would never be granted the opportunity to explain it to her. They were to move on, and yes, they would be together in this half-life that had always been their preserve, but he did not think she realised that forever, now, they would both be aware of a lack. Of a void, which no longer held the tantalising consolation of anticipation. And the want would eventually turn bitter, because a half-life can never truly compare to a full life, and despite what she thought, they both deserved better.

Harry pulled himself out of his melancholy reverie with a sigh. He had completed two sides of the square, and was approaching the dark figure on the bench. Scarlett had scurried ahead of him, and was now dancing around the woman's feet.

"Scarlett," he called, surprised. "I do apologise," he added, addressing the figure, which was bending down to pet the animal. "She's not usually-"

Ruth pushed her hair behind her ears and looked up at him as he came to a standstill. Neither of them said a word as Harry started walking again, taking a seat beside her. They sat, in silence, watching as Scarlett grew bored once again and took interest in a nearby stick, instead.

"It isn't just maths," she said, eventually. "If it was, it would all make sense. But I can't… I can't make it add up, Harry. I can't…"

Ruth trailed off, pale face a mask of sadness. Her hands trembled, and for the first time Harry realised that she was wearing only a jacket. He reached out, placing one large hand over both of hers. Her fingers were icy cold.

Harry undid his coat and pulled Ruth toward him, wrapping it and his arms around her, holding her against him. He expected her to fight, but she didn't. Her head fit perfectly beneath his chin, and he felt her arms slip around his waist.

"What were you thinking of," he asked with faint reproach, "sitting here in the cold? You're freezing."

He felt her shift, gently, and realised this was the closest they had ever been. Why, then, did it feel so natural to hold her this way – gently, without expectation? Harry pressed his cheek against her hair.

"I was trying to see things from your point of view," she whispered.

He smiled to himself. "And what have you concluded?"

Ruth pulled back, raising her head to look at his face. He watched the familiar beauty of hers, reminded again of the agony in not seeing it for weeks, for years.

"So much has happened," she said. "The things we've done, Harry… The things that have been done to us… To be happy, after everything… To find peace…" she shook her head.

"You don't think it's possible."

"Do you?"

"Yes," he told her, "but the guilt…"

She nodded, looking out across the park. Harry watched her for a moment, enjoying the rare opportunity to see nothing but her.

"Talk to me, Ruth," he said, softly. "All those things that you fear having to hide from the neighbours… tell them to me."

She looked back at him, grey eyes fastened on his.

"Some people need to be surrounded by others," he added. "But I think that you and I…"

Ruth pressed herself against him again, her head against his chest.

"There's a lot to say," she whispered, her voice indistinct.

Harry tightened his arms around her.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said.

[END]


End file.
